LITTLE RIE
If to be quiet is to be good, never was a better child; and certainly never was a happier one.
'Have you considered anything yet, ma'am?' asked Sally.
'Why, no, I can't, Sally, just yet; it's so wet, she must sleep here to-night,' replied the mistress. 'I'll think of it to-morrow.'
But to-morrow the mistress still said, 'I'll think of it to-morrow;' and so it came to pass that at the end of a month the child was still there. She had grown plump and rosy, though still extremely shy and quiet, which was in her favor; for mistress and maid finding so little trouble, and such a constant source of amusement and occupation, had gradually dropped all consideration as to what they were to do with her, and thought of nothing less than letting her go away at all.
She called herself little Rie, and said she come from a big place; but that was all that questioning could draw from her, excepting the repeated declaration that she did not want to go back to her mammy.
How happy she was in the pretty kitchen, with Sally, nursing the cat, listening to the tapping rosebuds, sitting on the little stool to eat her simple fare, going to the shop with Sally, and creeping softly into the parlor to peep at the dog, or carry a message or a plate of biscuits to the mistress! She was very happy, indeed, at first, but soon there began to mingle a great deal of fear with her reverence for the mistress. She had been brought up with no habits of order, with no schooling, and now she was to be taught and trained; and every day, when she was sent into the
